


Odyssey

by gleefulmusings



Series: Crossing Boundaries [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Doctor Who (2005), Glee, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Magical Kurt Hummel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 20:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19325227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gleefulmusings/pseuds/gleefulmusings
Summary: “For there is music wherever there is harmony, order, or proportion; and thus far we may maintain the music of the spheres.” – Sir Thomas Browne





	Odyssey

The energy was palpable and seductive, ricocheting around the street and barreling back at him. Everything was suddenly brighter and more intense.

Colors danced before his eyes, taunting him, calling to him, and his body began to respond in kind, just small tremors at first, his brain sending haphazard signals, and pressure, delightful and familiar, began to build. Muscles simultaneously loosened and contracted in joyful anticipation.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, and he felt himself unfurling, a temporary release of that which haunted him: fear, rage, sadness, desperation, hope, love, and happiness. His breathing slowed and his heartbeat steadied, synchronizing with his mind. He felt a rush of pleasure as his body came under his complete control, an experience so rare he wanted to announce it with a flare gun.

He threw a giddy smile at his friends, who replied with looks of measured concern.

He understood. Stolid and dependable when it counted, he was often flighty and capricious in his downtime. He had yet to share this side of him despite their boundless trust; he simply didn’t have words. He took their hands in his and propelled them forward toward the door, a plank of pine painted a dull matte black that absorbed light and reflected none of it.

There was some sort of symbolism or irony there, he was sure, but as no one explained its possibilities, he couldn’t be bothered contemplating it. He released them and threw open the door, his nose and eyes assaulted by the stench of sweat and alcohol and stale cigarette smoke.

He reveled in its heady promise even as his tongue became fuzzy and his eyes watered. He was home, but one which he had made for himself, independent of the destructive vices of his parents.

He was Odysseus in the midst of the wine-dark sea, the sirens calling to him with seductive coos and promises of forever, and he intended to answer. He delved into the crowd, ignoring the sneers and wanton looks their presence drew. He needed to be in the center of it all, not in a bid for attention but of indulgence, a celebration of the pagan nature he often felt compelled to submerge. It was addictive, this need, this aching desire for release.

 

 _On any given night, catch me on the floor,_  
_working up a sweat; that's what music's for._  
_I'd rather not explain; for me, it's just usual._  
_Once I get going I am gone, I'll keep it going all night long._

 

The rhythm washed over him, energizing and transcendent. He was no longer Buffy’s White Knight or Willow’s best friend or Cordelia’s disappointment. He was more himself than ever before, and, in these moments when all of the background chatter in his head quieted, when all of his regrets and shortcomings and failures fell away, he reveled in being just Xander. His hips began to move of their own volition, his head falling back as his eyes closed.

Music, he had found, was one of the singular pleasures of this life, at once both universal and personal. It meant so much to so many, but those meanings varied depending on the listener. Music afforded him identity in those times he felt alien, giving voice to thoughts and actions he could never properly express. The percussion of war, the strings of emotion, the brass of gaiety – music was to him what breathing was to others; it had never abandoned him, never judged him, never snubbed him. Music supported and uplifted him, unearthing those parts of himself he denied or remained unknown. It was soulful and peaceful and enveloping. Dancing was its natural partner, the desire to disseminate those feelings which music inculcated within you.

It was indescribable, this feeling, this freedom he so rarely afforded himself, when he wrenched free of obligations he had assumed and eschewed the labels to which he responded. These were the moments in which he owned his skin.

It had taken him a long time, painfully long, to realize loving himself didn’t lessen the love he felt for others; that wanting to be free did not mean freedom from the fight; that having something of his own – even something as innocuous as this – was not selfish. He missed them, his family, but knew they were all better for his leaving and, when he returned, he would be better for having gone.

He had become so consumed with Buffy’s calling, he had been unable for years to extricate himself from it, convincing himself his voluntary indentured servitude was vengeance for Jesse, about protecting Willow from evil and Buffy from herself. He had created Kendra and then Faith, and felt responsible to continue the work of the former while atoning for the failures of the latter. He wanted Jenny to be remembered by those who had failed to protect her, including himself. He needed Joyce to understand Buffy’s importance to the world, both as the Slayer and just as a daughter. He wanted Giles to be proud of him.

He had lost himself in the process, stifling his hopes and dreams, deeming them foolish and implausible, arguing he could do more for the world standing at Buffy’s side than by forging a path of his own. And part of that was true, but he had been shiftless, disconnected from the world around him because of circumstances and his own inertia. Buffy had arrived and finally given him direction, for which he was grateful, but he now understood it was up to him to find purpose.

He had forced himself to leave, knowing that if he stayed he would come to resent both her and himself far more than he already had. Oxnard and its weirdness happened, and he had discovered it was possible to make it on his own. True, it hadn’t worked out well, but it opened the door to possibilities he hadn’t allowed himself to believe existed.

 

 _This complicated life, I try to do my best._ _I always tell myself it's all just a test.  
For me it's an escape, cause dancing makes me feel beautiful._

 

He had tried so very hard. He had failed more often than triumphed. He continued to strive, which he supposed spoke of his character, but hindsight was cold comfort. He had tried to be the best friend, the best soldier, the best boyfriend; each attempt had met with various rates of success. He had shunted Willow aside after he had fallen in love with Cordelia, attempting to justify it by rationalizing she threw him over first in favor of Oz. He had never loved Willow the way she had wanted and, rather than dealing with it, he ignored her hints and hoped her feelings would go away; when they did, he couldn’t cope, no matter how much he loved Cordelia.

The further apart he and Willow grew, the more desperate he had become to strengthen their connection. He had destroyed four hearts in one fell swoop that nearly cost Cordelia her life, and none of them had ever really recovered. He had borne the brunt of the guilt and Willow had let him, a fact which rankled and only served to further their divide; rather than deal with it, they had, as with Jesse’s death, swept it under the rug and never spoke of it again. Oz had forgiven Willow and they tried to make it work, but it was never the same. Cordelia had washed her hands of all of them and the perspective distance afforded made clear hers was the wisest, healthiest choice.

Buffy carried the weight of the world, but he carried the baggage. She moved on because there was no alternative, not if she was to function. She wasn’t heartless or thoughtless. She had regrets of her own, serious ones, but she couldn’t wallow in them. So he did it for her, willingly, and it had cost him. He wasn’t a saint, but he was a good man, he was true, and he chose to believe that counted for something; that even if his deeds, his repentance, didn’t tip the scales, they at least balanced them. So every time he followed Buffy into battle, his primary concern was no longer just her survival, but paying homage to all of those who had fallen before them.

But this was now and those thoughts had no place here. They weren’t forgotten, but their importance was lessened, if only by a matter of degree. There was no judgment or atonement, and no forgiveness or acceptance was required. There was only him and the music, and those with whom he had chosen to share these moments.

 

 _You know I feel it in my heartbeat. It may feel old to you, but to me it feels new._  
_You know I feel it in my heartbeat. Don't you know, can't you see?_  
_When I dance, I feel free,which makes me feel like the only one, the only one,_  
_that the light shines on._

 

His return to Sunnydale had been lackluster. He had missed his friends and they him, but little had changed. He was still restless, spinning his wheels, waiting to be delivered to something of his own, something that mattered. And then the most beautiful boy had appeared and Xander somehow managed to save a life. The  resultant gratitude was humbling and illuminating.

He reached out and put his hands on Kurt’s waist, drawing him closer. The answering smile was hesitant, unsure, as if Kurt couldn’t understand the man who now stood before him, couldn’t reconcile him with the person he had believed Xander to be, a man now so carefree and unencumbered by memory. Xander had never opened up to him in this way, and he realized the man was sharing a part of himself which he wasn’t sure would be met with approval.

But approval wasn’t necessary or part of their relationship. It was so personal, this dance, this trust, and his smile widened as he returned the embrace. He moved with him, easily finding the rhythm and matching it, and then they were flying.

It hadn’t been this way with anyone since Willow, where the connection was immediate, where doubt was silenced and communication unspoken. His breadth of feeling for Kurt was so great he could never ascribe it the correct adjective. He had forgotten what it was to make friends with someone of his own volition rather than by virtue of proximity or shared history. He had forgotten what he had to offer another when there were no expectations at play.

He had changed so much these past years and kept so much of it hidden, he had been terrified to let someone in, but Kurt had changed all that. Kurt wanted nothing more from him than to know him, to be part of each other’s lives. Theirs wasn’t a friendship born of gratitude, for Kurt had saved his life in turn, many times.

Kurt was stronger than him, probably more powerful than anyone, but he didn’t impose himself on others. He believed theirs was a partnership, one in which Xander was expected to participate fully, not an autocracy. There was none of the resentment he had felt for Buffy or the jealousy he had felt for Willow.

He realized he was not as good a friend to the girls as he had once believed. He had loved them, been there for them, and would’ve walked through Hell at their side, but he could have been better. He could have done better. And now he was better.

Kurt had never fought for him against others, had never made him prove himself. There were no trials by fire or tests of loyalty. He had been included simply because Kurt wanted to include him. Xander had finally proved himself _to_ himself, recognizing he had merit not just because of his friends, but because he had worth.

Kurt was a gift, one without purchase.

Each new world, each new adventure, every perilous moment of discovery, brought him to a closer understanding of himself, of the person he was becoming and who he wanted to be. He was at their side and they at his. He was regarded as an equal, not an albatross or someone to be coddled, where he was a leader among four and not a follower of three. And it wasn’t a betrayal of his love for and loyalty to Buffy; it was something new and unplanned and joyous, and he knew it would not have been possible without these past three years under his belt.

And then there was her.

Hermione was the mirror through which he examined himself and, for once, he didn’t find that person lacking. She was young and brash and insistent and curious and loving. Despite her massive brain and ruthless logic, she often thought with her heart rather than her head, but her loyalty and dedication to both the fight and her team was unquestioned. She learned as she went, improved with each circumstance, ever growing and learning, never taking for granted her friends or abilities. She knew her worth but wanted more, anxious to prove herself, and the Doctor offered her that freedom. She had jumped on it and paid it forward, and now here they were.

 

_You probably think I'm crazy; I don't want you to save me._  
_Don't mean to disappoint you; I've never felt so free._  
_If you could stand in my shoes, then you would feel_  
_my heartbeat, too._

 

He watched as the Doctor regarded them through narrowed eyes, trying to suss out what was happening, what all of this meant, and he crinkled his eyes in amusement. He sensed the confusion and the jealousy and the longing to be included. The Doctor knew he had no designs on Kurt, no desire to come between them, but he and Hermione had the gift or curse of humanity, of needing to be needed, wanted, ensured a place of their own, and the Doctor had given them that.

The Doctor was gruff and snappish, sometimes even downright mean, but never did Xander feel for a moment he wasn’t loved, that he would be turned out and deposited right back where he had started. He never felt the Doctor believed he had made the wrong choice, and he knew Hermione felt the same.

The key to the TARDIS suddenly burned against his skin and he was warmed. Kurt, Hermione, and the Doctor were his home and always would be. His love for them didn’t eclipse what he felt for Buffy or Willow or Giles or Cordelia; it expanded it, enhanced it, and made it stronger. The heart was, he discovered, the strongest of all the organs, ever surprising him by its capacity for growth and inclusion despite its propensity for fracture.

He didn’t know how to tell them what they meant to him, how much he valued their friendship, so he tried his best to express it with action. Every time he took their hands, every time they shared a meal, every time he fought for them and they for him, every time they visited Harry or met up with Jack, he made sure they knew they were loved, and he felt theirs in return.

He wasn’t the runner-up or the last resort or a responsibility to be penciled in later. Nothing was unrequited or an inconvenience and, for once, the words for which he always struggled were unnecessary. Their love was eternal and it was pure, as corny as that sounded, and when it all was over, his heart would break and then heal, but in the meantime he planned to enjoy it to the fullest.

He laughed as he reached past Kurt and pulled the Doctor towards them, the man’s surprise and consternation inciting giggles in Hermione. The Doctor stood there for a moment, glaring at them, before offering a goofy smile and wiggling those big ears, surrendering to the music. He felt the Doctor’s hands cover his own, and hands became words, and together they swept Kurt and Hermione across the floor, her laughter bubbling up and becoming part of the song. Their hearts, all five of them, became one, each beating a rhythm both independent and synchronous. 

Whatever was to come, whatever would be, this was now and they were free.

 

 

 


End file.
